


Fifteen Minutes to Five AM

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Airplanes, M/M, Sherlock Can't Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-30 00:29:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13938735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “You’re tired and grumpy and you want to make me suffer with you,” John summed up.“...Yes.”





	Fifteen Minutes to Five AM

“John.” A low, quiet voice over the distant rumbling of the plane.

More persistent this time: “John.”

John’s eyelids fluttered open. Blue eyes, bright and hazy, darted over and met a pair of pale grey.

“Sherlock,” John murmured. “Hey.”

Sherlock rested his elbows on the arm rest and twisted to face John, the seat belt strap digging into his hip.

“I can’t sleep,” he said.

“I thought sleep was for the weak?" John said dryly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I must keep my transport safe in order to protect my mind.”

“You know," John mused, "you can just admit that you need just as much sleep as the rest of us.”

Sherlock snorted. “Nope.”

“Then shut up and stop complaining.”

John was rather unnerved when Sherlock did, in fact, shut up. If only for a few seconds.

“John.”

“Oh—” John scrubbed at his face. “What?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Ah. You’re repeating yourself. You must really be tired.”

Sherlock glared, and drew in a deep breath. (Oh dear. John knew that sound.)

“I have already revised and organised my mind palace four times. There is no internet connection, the in-flight magazines have been taken from our seats—which is ridiculous by the way, why would anyone want to take them?—and the mystery novel you bought at the airport contains the most idiotic people I have ever known, and that is quite an accomplishment. I have made deductions on every single passenger on this flight, all the attendants, and the captain on board. I have not slept in over twenty-four hours. It is fifteen minutes to five am and I am cramped, tired, and bored, so help me, John, or I'll have to resort to more drastic measures.”

Sherlock ended this with a petulant huff, crossing his arms and slumping down into his seat.

John licked his lips, which were horribly dry.

“You’re tired and grumpy and you want to make me suffer with you,” he summed up.

“...Yes.”

“Right.” John shifted to a more comfortable, upright position, feeling his chances of getting a good night’s sleep rapidly swirling down the gutter.

He resisted the heaviness of his eyelids and the temptation to tell Sherlock to bugger off and count sheep. A tired Sherlock and a bored Sherlock did not mix well together. Last time it happened, he had ran into the streets and took a dip in the Thames.

(In Sherlock’s defence, he had been _remarkably_ tired and _staggeringly_ bored, and he _did_ find a dead body that correlated with a cold case from a year ago, so there.)

John smiled, remembering how Sherlock had looked like a drowned rat, shivering and small and dripping with dirty water. He had sneezed for days on end, complaining and whining and generally being a huge nuisance.

“John. You're not doing a very good job at making me not bored.”

John groaned. The seatbelt sign above their heads was dark, and he unclasped the buckle and stretched again, this time accompanied with a yawn.

“You should feel bad for keeping me up with you,” he said lightly. “Is how you treat your friends?”

“I never had a friend before you,” Sherlock said with a shrug. “Forgive me for being uneducated in this area.”

“Oh,” John said, because what were you supposed to say to something like that? “Well—I wasn’t very popular in high school, either.” He cringed right after the words were out. Where the hell did that come from?

Sherlock smirked. “Oh, please. Rugby star and straight-A student, aiming for the army _and_ a doctor? I’m sure you were the cause of _acres_ of gossip. Did you date the cheerleading captain as well?”

“Hey.” John reached over and flicked a curl off Sherlock’s forehead. “Shut up. I was terrible at maths and science, and I never dated.”

“Why not?”

John glanced over, surprised at the genuine curiosity in Sherlock’s voice.

“I didn’t feel… ready, I guess.” John shrugged. “My first kiss was in uni. And it was a drunken dare.”

Sherlock frowned. “Mike calls you ‘Three-Continents Watson’.”

“I—what?” John flushed. “That’s an exaggeration.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Really? I thought you _actually_ shagged three entire continents. Now I'm disappointed.”

John ducked his head down low, fending off giggles. “Shut up,” he said. “And I didn’t get that reputation until late into uni.”

Sherlock tilted his head and narrowed his eyes.

“What about you?” John blurted, unnerved by those eyes that he had yet to grow used to. He didn’t think he ever would. “When was your first kiss?”

 _Stupid,_ he snapped to himself, but Sherlock didn’t seem to mind the question.

“Primary school. Second year.” He leaned his head against the seat and closed his eyes. “We were playing truth or dare. Actually, they were playing—I was in the corner, hacking into the school administrative system to try to make the test questions harder.”

“I had just figured out the password, and I was about to type it in. She kissed me right on the mouth.” A faint smile played on Sherlock’s lips. “It took me a full seven seconds to remember what the password was.”

John laughed. “What happened after?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Ran away screaming. Literally. And then gagged.”

“Jesus.” John grimaced. “I'm sorry I brought it up.”

Sherlock’s eyes opened and fixed on John, piercing blue and grey.

“It was a long time ago,” he said. “I learned early on to alienate myself. Much easier that way.”

John bit his lip.

“Those people,” he said, slowly and deliberately. “I don’t know much about them, but if they could see you now, they’d realise how blind they were.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Thank you, John. That's very kind of you.” He shut his eyes. “I think I'm ready to sleep, now.”

“Night, then.”

Sherlock made a noise of affirmation and settled down.

John leaned back against the uncomfortable airplane seat and tried to get back into his slumber.

Tried.

He didn’t know how much time passed. All he knew was that he was  _right there,_ right at the precipice of the cliff, tethering on the edge. The lapping lull of dreams beckoning him from below—so close, but unreachable.

Sherlock was silent and unmoving next to him. Oh, how the tables have turned.

“Damn it,” John hissed. 

“The pillow,” Sherlock said clearly. Ah—not asleep, then.

“Hmm?” John said.

“It’s too high. Your neck is at an awkward angle that intensifies your cervicalgia.”

Giving up, John opened his eyes. “Is that right?” He twisted his neck and winced. “Fantastic.”

Sherlock opened his mouth—and then closed it again.

“You could—there is—”

John peered at him. “What?”

“You could lean your head on my shoulder,” Sherlock rushed out in a single breath.

He continued speaking before John could interrupt. “Our height difference makes it so that your neck will be at around a thirty degree tilt, which is not enough to induce the pain. The pillow on the chair is secured so that there is no way to lower it—I suppose we could fashion a makeshift neck support out of your coat or the blanket, but there’s a chance that it would fall down to your back. If this criminal is as dangerous as he has made him out to be thus far, it would not be prudent for you to knowingly sleep with a cramped neck, and that is assuming if you do manage to fall asleep in the first place. The simplest solution would be to…” Sherlock trailed away.

“It would be merely practical,” he said, and that was that.

“Er,” John said. “Yeah. OK. Why not?”

Sherlock blinked. “OK,” he repeated, and shifted closer to John. “You can just—”

“Right—”

“Just—”

“Yeah—”

“OK.”

A moment passed. Neither of the two men moved, each tentatively prodding at each other, trying to get to know this new boundary they’ve unconsciously stepped across.

Sherlock’s breathing came in shallow waves. “Alright?”

His voice actually vibrated, rumbling through John's body. John fended off a shiver.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s—good.”

The padding from Sherlock’s jacket and a coat provided enough cushion for his sharp, angled shoulder, and the breath that John had been holding was let out. The tension in his joints released along with it. So, yes—this _was_ what he was missing.

“Sleep,” Sherlock murmured. “We’ll need to be at the crime scene by eight.”

“Looking forwards to it,” John said, already slipping down.

Dirty blond hair tickled his neck. John had been using Sherlock’s conditioner, judging from the scent. Sherlock didn’t mind.

The engine rumbled on, steady and unrelenting; the breathing of the passengers and the barely-there hum of music through cheap disposable earbuds. A hushed woman’s voice, speaking to the man across. The only light sources the emergency strips along the seats and the dim glow of electronics.

Sherlock dropped his head down to rest on John’s hair. They breathed in sync, together. The plane roared on.


End file.
